Tolkien's England
by Chorsah
Summary: He lamented England's lack of a mythology, and decided to make one. A series of stories about the encounters between Lord of the Rings author J.R.R. Tolkien and his beloved country over the years, starting in the trenches of WWI.First fic,not a crossover
1. Skies and Trenches

The Welsh _wybren_ sounded much better than the English _sky_, John "Ronald" Reuel Tolkien thought instinctively as a small patch of blue opened up in the smoke-choked air above. He shifted, staring at it, as if in holding it in his gaze he might be able to keep it from disappearing completely.

He stared intently at it for about a minute, but a little cloud of smoke and dust soon veiled it from his sight, the sky and air becoming once again a dark, stifling cloak that seemed to hang threateningly over the heads of everyone in the trench.

Ronald grimaced, and then repositioned himself, facing the line of German troops a couple hundred yards away. He could hardly see them due to the haze, but he knew they were there, just like he was: staring, waiting, just like he was now, for someone to strike, something to happen. But no one dared to do anything. Charging across the middle ground, "no man's land," was certain death, so all he could do now was wait, patiently, with the rest of the British troops. For shots. For orders from their superiors. For something to happen. Occasionally there was shooting, which was quick and deadly, but the majority of the time it was waiting, and during these long periods of time, Ronald allowed his mind to wander down long, interconnected paths.

One fellow soldier's name was Graham, which made Ronald remember the etymology of the name: Graham, which must have come from the Old English _groeg-háma_, which meant "gray-hame, gray coat," which would be used to refer to a wolf. Then he thought of the famous wolf of Norse mythology, Fenris Ulf, who bit off the hand of the god Tyr and could only be bound by special silent and invisible chains...Ronald made a mental note to himself to find an equivalent for "gray-hame" in Qenya, a language he was working on creating in his spare time. He'd made some extra notes on a few scraps of paper already after he'd been drafted, but otherwise it was mostly in his head. He shifted some more in place irritably, the mud in the trench soaking up to his shins. When would this war end? He wanted desperately to get back to his home, to Oxford where the only battles he'd have to deal with would be the ones on paper that happened long ago with shining swords, bows and arrows, all written down in glorious alliterative verse. Not like this war, full of discomfort and awful boredom.

"Oi, Tolkien!" The sound of Graham's voice calling him broke Ronald's train of thought.

"What's it now? Any news from the captain?"

"Naw. Nothing like that. But there's a certain chap who's coming over to us, and I haven't got a clue what's up with him."

"What do you mean by that?"

Graham shrugged "I think he's coming this way. You'll hear soon enough." He'd barely spoken when angry voices could be heard coming from Ronald's side.

"...There's been a mistake, how many times must I tell you that?"

"Now, please stay calm, young master–"

"I shouldn't be here at all! I'm not a foot soldier, you git! I'm a diplomat, I was on my way to a negotiations meeting just now, it's just that there was an accident and I had to–"

"Sir, you're aware that deserting is punishable by–"

"I was _not_ deserting, you git! It must be some other man named Arthur Kirkland that you're looking for because it is certainly not me!"

At this two figures emerged; one was the captain, looking cross and frustrated, and the other was a red-faced and disheveled young man who was positively bristling all over with indignation.

"D'ya hear that, boys?" the captain gave a grim laugh. "He says he's a diplomat on the way to a negotiations meeting! Completely batty! As if any _sane_ diplomat would be caught a hundred paces near _this_ front!"

"For the last time, I am _not_–"

"Now looky here, boy," The captain cut the newcomer off sharply. "I don't want no nonsense being reported, you hear? I've already sent word to the higher-ups about this, which is more than I'd usually do for a loony like you. Maybe _they'll_ believe your story. Until then, you're to stay here until further notice. You can replace Maxwell, since we lost him just a few days ago."

"But I'm not–"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, just shut up and get over there!"

The young man opened his mouth to utter another string of protests, but the captain was gone.

"Um, hello," Ronald said weakly, not quite knowing what else to say. The visitor relaxed a bit, and turned towards him.

"Hello yourself," he smiled half-heartedly.

"I'm Ronald Tolkien, and this is my mate Graham."

"Oi," said Graham.

"Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to make your acquaintance." Arthur extended his hand, and Ronald shook it as if they were a couple of gentlemen meeting at Oxford for a dissertation rather than soldiers in a muddy trench. Ronald inspected the newcomer. He was of rather average height and girth,, with unkempt sandy-blonde hair and a uniform that looked as if he'd put it on too rapidly to care how it looked. His only outstanding features really, were his incredibly bushy eyebrows.

"I'm sorry you got stuck with us,' Ronald said.

"Oh, it's all right. It's not your fault." Arthur sighed and leaned on the side. "It's just another stupid mix-up, and I happened to be just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm sure that idiot Francis set me up too. Stupid Triple Entente." He mumbled the last part to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I'm sure this will all be over in a few days anyway, as soon as this misunderstanding clears up. How about you? It's Ronald, right? How long you've been here?"

Ronald shrugged. "Some weeks. Probably more. I don't really keep track of time like I used to. It's mostly the same, day in, day out."

"Where're you from?"

"Oxford. You?"

"London."

"Got any family there?"

"Sort of. I have brothers in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, but we don't talk much. How 'bout you?"

"I've got a wife at home. Edith."

"Miss her?" It was a needless question.

"Yes." The haze lifted a bit, and Ronald could barely make out the tops of some of the Germans' heads. Enough to see, but not enough target to shoot. Between the two lines stretched a barren wasteland full of smoke, shells, barbed wire, and corpses, corpses strewn everywhere from the fateful times when soldiers had attempted to charge the opposite line. In the yellowish light they looked grotesque and unreal, otherworldly in a decisively horrible way. Ronald blinked and grimaced at the sight which had become all too familiar, and moved down where he wouldn't be able to see, at least for a little while.

"This isn't how war was supposed to be before," he murmured to himself. "If I had to be a soldier at all, why couldn't it have been about, oh I don't know, a thousand years before? Back when there were still knights, and shining swords, and _longbows_!"

"Wars were still just as awful in those days too, you know."

Ronald jumped; he hadn't thought that Arthur had heard him. "I suppose you are right. But at least they had deeds and battles worth writing and painting about, and honor and chivalry, when one could say _dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_ and be telling the truth. But us here? All we do all day long is wait and stare at our enemy. Firing occasionally. Those who do try to make any advancements are gunned down immediately. Who'd want to write a lay or ballad about that?"

Arthur shrugged. "This war is something new for all of us. But still, I really don't think those battles back then really were half as glorious as all those poems you were talking about. I mean, there was glory and honor and all that for sure, but there were ugly sides to them too. Sides that weren't always included in those ballads."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself. What are you, a historian?"

"Of a sort."

"You're right, of course," Ronald smiled weakly. "I'm no historian–I mostly just read the myths and legends of cultures long gone. I'm a Philologist, so I read a lot of the old English poems, fairy stories, sagas, and the rest."

At first Arthur didn't answer, and Ronald started to worry that he was talking too much. But soon the newcomer spoke again.

"So you've read _Beowulf_, then?"

Ronald beamed, more than he had since the beginning of the war.

"Why, yes! Of course! It's one of my favorites, after the Kalevala! Even if, well, it's not really English, but a Danish story. Not many people outside of Oxford that I've met know about it. Have you read it?"

Arthur raised his thick eyebrows. "I have," he said. "a long time ago, so I don't remember much of the details. But I used to be a fan. I'm glad that it's still being read, even if it's only at Oxford."

"I'm glad too," said Ronald, still beaming. "I love Old English texts. Although–although–oh, you probably think I'm talking too much."

"Not at all," said Arthur, smiling for real this time. "You were saying?"

"As a proud Englishman," Ronald started off, "it's a shame that there aren't that many stories and myths that are truly English in origin, you know? The Germanic and Nordic peoples had their grand mythologies. So did Ancient Greece and Rome. But what of us? Where is the mythology of the English people?"

"There are the legends of Camelot and King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table," Arthur suggested.

"Those were copied from the Welsh mythos," Ronald lamented. "It's not the same. I'm talking something older, more ancient. Something that–that came before Arthur, before Christianity and the Romans came to the Isles, that may have been the inspiration of the legends that came afterward. I like to think that there was such a mythology a long time ago, but it's just been lost. Forever, probably. But since it is lost, we can only imagine what it was like, figuring it out from the fragments that have been left to us. It's like piecing together a puzzle with many pieces missing. You have to make up, imagine the rest of the picture, but you need to make sure that they line up with the pieces that you do have. _Eala Earendel!_ It's so–" Ronald stopped talking as he realized that both Arthur and Graham were staring at him.

"For Pete's sake, Ronald, must you go on your mythological rants to Mr. Kirkland here? You may as well go over to the German line and talk their ears off. Maybe then they'll surrender." Graham laughed heartily at his own joke. Ronald was not amused.

"That's mostly it," he said to Arthur. "I'm just trying to find a mythology for my beloved England." He shook his head sheepishly. "She's gone without one for far too long. It may already be lost forever but I...I'd like to try my hand at recreating it, in the form of a book or novel or something. " It would also give him a place to use all his carefully constructed languages that were taking up space in his head, he added silently. He looked up to see Arthur giving him a quizzical expression. "I sound batty, don't I?" he laughed at himself, but Arthur's response was one that he frankly hadn't expected.

"What makes you so sure that England is a _she_?"

Three days, two frightening bouts of shooting between the two lines and one bizarre argument concerning the correct genders of countries later, Arthur was called away from the front by none other than the captain himself. This time, however, the captain was oddly submissive, apologizing profusely to Arthur about the mistake.

"Honestly, sir," said the captain. "I had absolutely no idea whatsoever. No one ever tells me anything around here."

"It's nothing, don't mention it," grumbled Arthur as he made his way out. "So long, Ronald." He said before leaving. "Good luck with that mythology of yours. Maybe I'll see you again after the war."

"I doubt it." Ronald said, "but do drop by Oxford sometime, hm? For me."

Arthur smiled. "I have to go now, really. But maybe I will." He waved and was gone.

England was soon riding safely away from the lines in an armored vehicle, sulking next to France, who had admitted to having at least some responsibility for the mix-up.

"But the truth is, there sure are quite a few Arthur Kirklands in your army, you know." He chuckled.

"Oh shut up. You did this on purpose, I know you did."

"Now, why would I do that? This isn't the Hundred Year's war anymore. We're allies now. Besides," France gave a knowing grin. "You haven't personally been to a battlefield for quite some time now, Angleterre."

England was about to give a sharp retort when he considered this. True, it had been a long time since he'd been on a battle field that wasn't at sea. But that battlefield hadn't even been much of a battle at all–like what Ronald had said, it had been mostly full of anxiety and tedium. Different than anything that had been fought before, and, in a way, deadlier. He sighed and leaned back in his seat, feeling oddly nostalgic for the past times, when there were knights in shining armor charging the enemy on beautiful horses...

_Snap out of it_, he told himself, trying hard to shake the fairy tale out of his mind and conjure up the feeling of the heavy breastplates, chain maille digging into his skin, thick woolen tunics soaked with sweat and blood, the ugly side of the tales that he had been telling Ronald about. But try as he might, he still couldn't get the image of the knight out of his head. Maybe, just maybe there was at least some grain of truth in that image.

_A Mythology for England_. He remembered what Ronald had said about a "Forgotten Mythology," and thought about Mama Britannia, something he hardly ever did, probably due to the fact that he'd never met her. Maybe he had, a long time ago as a young child, further back than he could remember. Heck, she probably didn't even call herself that, what with "Britannia" being a Latin name and all. Apparently she'd disappeared shortly after he was born, leaving him and his brothers to fend for themselves. Perhaps that's when that Mythology had been lost, back with Mama Britannia.

"Are you alright, Angleterre?" France was turned towards him, looking unusually concerned.

"Hm?" England woke from his contemplations. "It's nothing. Just..."

"Just what?"

"I might be too old to be thinking this," said England. "But now that I consider it, in a way we're...orphans, aren't we?"

France was silent for a moment.

"Well," he said finally, "I've never thought about it that way. We just kind of had to take care of ourselves, didn't we?"

"Yeah," England fiddled with a loose brass button on his uniform. "But we came out tougher for it."

"I'd sure hope so." The armored vehicle rumbled over some bump in the road. "For the sake of this war, I mean. It's testing all of us. We're either going to come out of this dead or stronger."

"'The War to End All Wars.' Do you really believe that?"

"Of course. I mean, when this ends, how could anything be worse?"

"I don't know. I don't particularly want to know. But whatever happens, it's never going to be the way it was again, isn't it?"

"_Jamais,_" France gave an uneasy chuckle. "But hey, I can count on you to watch my back this time, right?" he gave his companion a playful back-slap.

"Shut up, you git. Of course I will. This time at least."

"I thought as much." They didn't speak for the rest of the ride, and soon England began to get drowsy. He leaned his head against the back of the seat and soon dozed off, with half-forgotten memories of times long ago galloping through his dreams.

* * *

**So yeah, this is my first ever completed fic! Well, it's not exactly complete, since there may be more in the future, but this first chapter is meant to stand by itself too. However, if anyone has any suggestions for future chapters, message me! Oh, and notes:**

**-I had to take some liberties with physics and history–don't ask me how England got in and out of the trench. Or what the "Armored vehicle" was. If you have any idea on how to make it more specific, tell me!**

**Hope you enjoyed, hope to have more...though not in the near future, I can tell you that.**


	2. Deluge

Chapter 2: Deluge

The ocean was calm as usual, with small, foamy waves gently crumbling on the surf as Ronald strolled leisurely along the beach, taking deep breaths of the fresh, salty air–much different and much more preferable to the stench that lingered over the damp trenches, the memory of which now seemed very far away indeed. How long ago had it been? He thought, but decided to not dwell upon it, choosing rather to focus on the pleasure of the moment.

He didn't get much time to savor it, though, for there must have been some imperceptible change in the air, and while a moment before he had been calm and relaxed, now he felt suddenly nervous and panicked for no apparent reason. He turned, nervously, back and forth on the surf, trying to decide what to do, when he heard a great roar, and the sea that had been calm a minute ago now raised itself into a wave of monstrous proportions, climbing higher and higher, a mountain of water. Ronald turned and ran–a futile action, but what else could he do? The giant wave crashed down, rushing over the land and sweeping Ronald away with it….

He woke up gasping, startling himself and the other patients in the ward. After taking a few grateful gulps of air, he relaxed again, leaning back on his pillow to look up at the gray hospital ceiling.

"Pyrexia of unknown origin," the doctors had called it, but to everyone else it was simply known as "trench fever." He groaned, feeling suddenly dizzy, and closed his eyes as the images of his time at the front refreshed themselves in his memory–shells bursting, gas spreading, frenzied night missions cutting the barbed wire, the masses of corpses strewn between the lines, slowly rotting in the dreary rains that plagued them on the Western Front…he forced his eyes open, trying to put those images out of his mind. He wasn't at the front anymore, he reminded himself. He was in Birmingham, England, recovering from the irritating lice-borne illness he had contracted on the field. In a way, he hoped that he wouldn't recover so quickly–every day spent in the hospital was a day spent away from the stale horror that was happening in West mainland Europe.

Ronald grabbed his notebook, which was lying on the stand beside his bed, and turned to a blank page. Throughout his time on sick leave, he'd taken the time to brush up on his Spanish and French, and had even begun to teach himself a little Russian. It had been annoying him lately that he could deliver a crushing rebuttal in Latin at Oxford debates and enchant his friends with the ancient Norse tales in the original Icelandic, but could barely hold a normal conversation with his French colleagues without lapsing into his bad habit of mumbling and stumbling over his own words. But all language lessons aside, he was mostly just glad to have time to work on his personal projects. His notebook was full of notes on Qenya grammar and roots–he had a sizable vocabulary by now, and he'd even begun writing some simple poems in it. As he stared at the blank page in his notebook, however, instead of writing he began to draw long, curling lines that eventually turned into the image of a tidal wave ravaging a landscape–the dream that had troubled him that night, and many nights before.

Ronald couldn't remember the first time that nightmare had come to haunt his sleep, but it had haunted him for a long time–always the same, a giant wave would appear out of nowhere and engulf the land. It had terrified him as a child, and had never gone away. Now, as an adult, he decided that he should try to understand it, to make some sense out of it. What could it possibly mean? Was there a story behind it, long forgotten?

He laughed to himself, quietly. His work as a philologist had taught him to ask such questions whenever he encountered a strange or interesting word or phrase. The simplest suffix or root could have a long and noble history behind it that could easily be overlooked if taken at face value. Because of this, Ronald was not one to view anything on a superficial level, even if what he was investigating was a strange recurring dream. He scribbled some notes next to his doodle:

_Great wave, recurring dream–deluge. THE Deluge. From diluvium, Latin. Noah's flood–Flood legends around the world…._

He scribbled some more, and inevitably his mind drifted to his largest and most personal project of all–his English Mythology. He wondered if, somehow, he could turn his nightmare into a story that could become a part of that mythology–after all, every culture had a flood legend–why couldn't he put his own twist on it? He jotted down this idea excitedly. He had only a handful of vaguely related stories for his mythology, but he hoped to someday bring them together into something more coherent, grand, something worthy of his motherland–for of course, despite being born in South Africa, England would always be his motherland.

Motherland. The word made him remember a rather amusing discussion he had had with Arthur Kirkland about the genders of nations.

"But countries and continents are always feminine," Ronald had argued. "We refer to our native lands as our mother nations, and the personifications are always female: there's Mariana of France, Columbia of America, Fjallkonan the Lady of Iceland, and don't forget, it's Britannia who rules the waves."

"I never understood how that ridiculous convention started." Arthur had grumbled. "Why can't it be 'fatherland' for once? Who decided that all nations must be female? For all you know it may be just the opposite."

Ronald would have waved his hands above his head in frustration if he hadn't had to be afraid of German machine guns. "I don't know! It's more poetic and proper to refer to them as 'she!' Does it really even matter! It's not as if countries are like people, you know, having a definite sex! Good heavens, I'm glad that English doesn't have feminine and masculine nouns like in the Romance languages!"

Arthur had smirked, making a strange expression under those bushy eyebrows of his that Ronald hadn't been able to figure out, but mercifully they ended the conversation and never brought the subject up a gain in the remaining twelve hours that Arthur was with them.

Ronald wondered where he had gone after leaving the front, if he really was a diplomat as he had claimed, and a thousand other things–there were several curious things about that man, Arthur–the fact that he seemed familiar with Beowulf was one, but also how the captain had suddenly deferred to him on that last day. That was odd. But despite those oddities, there was definitely something about Arthur Kirkland that Ronald, as analytical as he was, just couldn't place, something that had made Ronald feel comfortable telling him all about his absurd ambitions of creating a mythology, something that had made him sure that Arthur wouldn't laugh or shake his head at such a far-fetched prospect, unlike Graham or the others.

Come to think of it, he'd hardly spoken a word about his project to anyone outside of his circle of close friends, the Tea Club Barrovian Society, T.C.B.S. for short. They had understood him far better than anyone else he knew, even more than Edith did. With fondness he remembered the days they had spent sneaking tea into the library to have their discussions and critiques on each other's poetry–good old Rob, Geoffrey and Christopher had always been there for him, and they had all firmly believed that the four of them could–and _would–_create something, important, something far greater than the sum of them all…

But now Rob and Geoffrey were dead, killed in action, and Christopher was too far away to be of any comfort, leaving Ronald on his own, wondering if it had all been just a foolish fantasy all along.

_No, it wasn't. Don't talk like that. _Tucked into Ronald's notebook was the last letter he had gotten from Geoffrey mere days before his death, urging him to remember everything their little club had sought to do and create. Ronald imagined Geoffrey sitting calmly in the empty seat the window, smiling as he talked.

"You can't give up on us," said his friend. "It's your job now to carry our torch and create what we were all striving for. The shrapnel might have got to us first, but the T.C.B.S. lives through you. "

"I can't do it all by myself, Ronald protested. "if you're talking about my grand mythology, I–I don't even know. It's such a ridiculous idea in the first place, I could never take it to the heights that we wanted. The Tea Club is _dead_, Geoff–and come to think of it, so are you!"

"You always had quite the imagination, John Ronald." The Geoffrey in his laughed heartily. "I'm sure you'll put it to great use. Don't stop writing! Create your story, for poor old Rob and Chris and I–no, not just for us. Write a legendarium for England to pride itself on!"

_ Tappa-tap-tap-tap-tappa-tap._

Ronald woke up slowly this time, to the sound of rain pelting his window. The chair next to the window was empty, which confused him–hadn't he just been talking to Geoffrey a moment ago? No, that couldn't be right–Geoffrey Smith was dead, and he was gripping his last letter in his hand.

_ Just another dream. _

The rain was getting heavier, pounding the window as if his Deluge would be coming in the form of water from heaven, not the sea, but John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, warm and dry in his hospital bed, was already forming in his mind a story to accompany his great wave– still in its development stage, but the basic idea already there. A story that would fit in the same world as his others, to go along with a poem he had written about a mariner on a flying ship carrying a star into the sky….

"_Write a legendarium for England to pride itself on!"_ Geoffrey had said in Ronald's dreams, and Ronald was not one to ignore a friend.

_I will_, he thought to himself as he folded up the letter and tucked it back into its page in his notebook. _I will_.

Yay, it's here! Took some liberties with it, since there isn't much info on the T.C.B.S., let alone the individual members, but the letter from Geoffrey B. Smith is real and you can read part of it in Humphrey Carpenter's biography of Tolkien. I would have included it here, but unfortunately I'm out of town and don't have my book with me. England isn't really in this chapter but he will be the next! I felt bad for not putting him in too much, so I had to put the actual conversation that happened between them in the last chapter–that was one of the funniest things to write in a mostly serious story. Stay tuned for the next chapter, and thanks for reading!


	3. Drown My Woe

Rain pelted the windows of England's room, but he hardly noticed it–such weather was commonplace in his house. However, it did nothing to improve his gray mood as he perused the lists his bosses had sent him, lists containing the too many names of those who had been killed or injured on the front. He slapped the list down on the table in disgust. Why was he–why were his bosses–so willing to throw away the lives of all the able bodied young men in Britain? The war had seemed like such an easy, almost trivial thing at the beginning. He was the mighty British Empire after all, and he had everything at his disposal–modern weapons, trained soldiers all over the globe, and a powerful navy. The war should have been a breeze, a mere scuffle destined to be lost and forgotten in ten or so years. But he, as well as everyone else, had been too enamored of their own power for too long, diving into the conflict without thinking, and they were all now having one hell of a reality check, in the worst possible position, stuck with no where to turn.

He complained of this to France one day at the pub.

"You, Angleterre? In the, 'worst possible position?' I beg to differ, but at least you don't have to worry about land invasion, oh no. You have a very convenient barrier of water between yourself and the huns, but moi? I must watch my back every second."

"Oh, shut th'bloody hell up." England growled, downing another glass of ale and refilling it. "You don't have to worry about these stinkin' U-boats sneaking around and stabbing you in the back. Remember Lusitania? Even that stubborn isolationist git America is all over it." He fumbled with the list in his left hand, once again going over the names. Most were people he had never personally met in his life, but all the same they were part of him–and he felt the loss just as much as any one family.

A name on the crumpled, smeared paper caught his eye, not one of the fallen or injured, but on the list of those indisposed by disease.

_John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, of the Lancashire Fusiliers._ Tolkien, Tolkien. An odd name, and remotely familiar. England dug farther back in his memory and recalled a peculiar young man with a long face who he'd met the day he'd been mixed up and accidentally sent to the dugouts. Ronald, he had introduced himself as. A pleasant chap, who had talked quite a bit about this and that–about origins of the English language, about Beowulf and other old poems, all of which England couldn't help but feel nostalgic at. The man had also mentioned something else–what was it? Something about a lost mythology that he wanted to create and uncover. Whatever it was, he was a staunch Englishman all right, if somewhat prone to long and incomprehensible rants. He had survived so far, but for how much longer? The odds were stacked against his surviving in one piece to the end of this war. England polished off yet another glass and muttered to himself.

"Well, if jolly ol' King Arthur and 'is round table knights ain't comin' back for me, I shur 'ope that that bloke kin thinkuff sumthin' bettah." He gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself.

"What are you babbling on about?" France asked, looking amused and slightly concerned at the same time. "I think you've had a drop too much, mon ami. You should probably get back to your house before you–ah–do anything you'll regret later."

"Go t'blazes," England pointed a shaky finger in France's direction. "This is my house, frog."

"Well, okay, technically it is, but what I meant was–"

"Can't ya let a man drown 'is troubles at a time like this?" I'm the 'igh an' mighty Brightish Empire an' ya thinks it's all fun an' games? The sun never sets on me, so I never get a wink o' sleep with this blasted war–never shoulda gotten involved...idiots, the lot o' ya." England awkwardly got out of his chair and stumbled his way out the door, and into the rain, muttering and cursing the whole time.

France turned to go after him, but stopped and decided against it, shaking his head as his ally disappeared into the rainy streets. In the back of the pub some people were banging the keys of an old piano, cheerfully and tunelessly belting out an old song.

_Heigh-ho! To the bottle I go_

_To heal my heart and drown my woe_

_And rain may fall and wind may blow_

_And there still be many miles to go!_

England wandered aimlessly from street to street, even though the rain was pouring in torrents now, and he could hardly see where he was going, much less on which avenue his house was. Somewhere along the way he must have wandered into the park, since the last thing he remembered seeing was the wide silhouette of a tree trunk directly in front of him before simply blacking out.

_And under a tall tree I will lie_

_And let the clouds go sailing by_.

* * *

The rhyme is from LoTR if you don't know, and mmph, sorry, writing drunk people is a bit awkward. :D Thanks for reading!


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